New York Time
by streco
Summary: His feet nearly fell out from underneath his body as a torturous expression screwed up his features, his eyes going wide and his limbs shaking uncontrollably. The curls, that was what he'd seen. They were the identification that he needed.


_Everybody bites on the Big Apple, leave the hungry in tears  
__But no one gives a damn, no one really cares how they feel  
They're just paper people, not real; you need a gun to walk into New York _

When she stepped onto the elevator for a few moments, how could she have known they were her last? There wasn't even a discreet warning; not an omen, not an angel of mercy swooping down to save her life. The head balanced on her shoulders was an intelligent one. A heart of gold beneath a shield of bravery that followed her with every step she took. Elegance was a given. Endurance was expected. Quick wit was a byproduct.

This elevator was a slow one she discovered upon entering. She'd been on many elevators in her life—usually with a holster, a bulletproof vest and backup, all of whom generally had Y-chromosomes. It wasn't chivalry that put her at a higher ranking, or sympathy for her orphaned past; it was talent. She knew that, everyone knew that.

On this trip, she came without identification. It was nice to not have to be anybody, not that she really was, anyway. She'd walked through the warm spring air without a purse or a name, as far as she was concerned. No badge, no license, no credit cards, no social security. She'd made her appointment, they knew she was coming. She was a free bird now, singing a song of purity and a clean slate.

As she rode her last elevator ride, she thought of Mac Taylor, her obsessive-compulsive, insomniac boss whom she loved in a few different ways so much that it confused her. At this, she sighed and pursed her lips, something she did often.

Sighing once again, quietly, she leaned against the back wall of the elevator, closing her eyes. She'd figure that out another day, she decided. With less issues and conflicts. Now she was on a mission to see if she couldn't find out a thing or two about the mysterious pasts of her parents, and if they were even still alive or not.

She never got nervous or scared in crime scene situations, not even when she was kicking a door open in heels and navigating on thin ice, literally at times. But now her palms had a familiar clamminess, something that always made her think of the old days at the orphanage, when adults would show up and she'd have to wear that ugly dress Sister Marie picked out for her that itched and smelled like musk and stand up straight and oh don't do this keep your shoulders straight, you want to look presentable, don't you?

Subconsciously she smoothed down the front of her shirt and flicked a stray curl off her shoulder. She was ready, she told herself. She'd always been ready. Always been curious, promised herself she'd find out. She wanted to know this.

Evidently, someone else didn't want her to. Because as the elevator dinged with a tone of finality that she did not hear while taking one, two, three, four, five steps forward, a total of a moment, or two moments, a silent, unexpected someone crept up behind her and _slice_, _push_, the back of her neck had a clean slit and a hole about the size of a knife one would find in a DIY-murder-kitchen-knife set.

In New York time, a moment was all a killer needed.

The mess was wiped up—all a part of the presentation, thought the killer cleverly—and she was wrapped in a white cloth. While the killer laughed silently, he slipped out of the foyer, leaving the weapon, still slick and twinkling with her blood.

_Girl dead on the 26th floor, but no one knew her name  
Found her body behind the door, too young for the game_

With bloodshot eyes and bated breath he watched from a hidden corner as the crime scene investigators arrived, their kits and items ready to process a scene. They'd asked for an ID of the body, but no one had known—not in this area, anyway. The woman had come without identification, another blemish on the face of New York, just another body.

But something about this body stopped the first detective—a tall, dignified man who carried himself like he'd spent many years in the service, seen enough for two lifetimes, dedicated his heart and soul to everything he did. A man who carried himself at this moment like he'd loved the dead woman with all of what was left of his heart.

His feet nearly fell out from underneath his body as a torturous expression screwed up his features, his eyes going wide and his limbs shaking uncontrollably. The curls, that was what he'd seen. They were the identification that he needed.

The man fell to his knees and examined the corpse's face, rubbing it gently, moving her hands. Her name contaminated the air like the plague, and suddenly it was falling from everyone's lips. The boss was still convinced she was alive, checking a pulse every few minutes, his face void of expression. It looked stuck there.

And then the breakdown the murderer had been waiting for came—gradual at first and then almost unbearable to watch, even for him. Another woman's name fell from his lips, and he kept pleading that it not happen again, not like last time. Not another loss for him. The killer got angry at this, his mentally warped brain not comprehending how someone could ever lose as much as him. His wife had given his daughter away in fear of him, so he'd killed her. Though his daughter might not ever know the truth, he would.

The other detectives seemed shaken, but not nearly as shaken as the first man. It was easy to see, from a distance, that his world had just fallen apart—in a snap decision, in the blink of an eye, in a horrific moment he'd now never forget. Just like the last time it had happened to him, the killer assumed, but of course he'd never really know.

"I'll get the son of a bitch who did this to you," the man choked out, a promise amidst the tears and flurry of confusion.

Of _course_ he would.

And Thanos Bonasera laughed as he stalked away from the scene, taking off his bloody gloves.

_New York, poor New York, talkin 'bout New York, New York  
Money's getting tighter New York, they're burning the bridges to New York

* * *

_

Probably one of the darkest things i've ever written. And I know it's unlikely. But I wanted to build the feel that Stella has no one, therefore no one knows who she is. Meeeh.

Lyrics are credited to Cat Stevens for his song "New York Time"


End file.
